


Root Beer Float

by seikaitsukimizu



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 11:13:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seikaitsukimizu/pseuds/seikaitsukimizu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one is surprised Hill leads the coup. </p>
<p>Everyone is surprised that Fury steps down without a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Root Beer Float

**Author's Note:**

> Was working through the Marvel Bang, when this quick plot jumped into my head. Unbetaed.

When the coup comes—and it was due, everyone knew—no one is surprised it’s Agent Hill that leads it. 

It’s expected, really. After New York, after blowing up one of their operatives, after allowing the Tesseract to return to Asgard with the criminal Loki…

The World Council is nothing if not predictable. They never liked Fury. He asked forgiveness on too many plans. He defied and ignored the Council’s wishes. He allowed enemy agents into secure facilities on only a word. If ever they would make a move, it would be now. And Agent Hill, for all that she despises the Council, is more willing to compromise, more willing to work within the bounds of SHIELD’s precepts. 

She isn’t their puppet. She also isn’t a renegade. 

No one is surprised she leads the coup. 

Everyone is surprised that Fury steps down without a fight. 

The tense silence that apparated when Hill made her demand was instantly replaced with stunned surprise as Fury nodded once, shouldered past the security escort, and walked off the Helicarrier without a single glance back. 

He doesn’t worry about snipers, faux accidents, or even the Black Widow. The Council is well aware he has fail-safes should anything happen to him. News tidbits, blackmail material, even the founding secrets of SHIELD all ready to be disbursed the instant his heart stops. They can make his life difficult, freeze his accounts, force him to hole up in some third-world country. 

His life, his very existence, though, is untouchable. 

It’s not like he doesn’t have options. The Council can blacklist him from SHIELD, but SWORD wouldn’t give two shits about that. They knew his record, knew his style, and knew he could handle the random insanity extraterrestrials brought to this world. In a pinch he could even approach ARMOR, though that one held risk. He wasn’t even supposed to know of its existence, but his Good Eye had spotted the overly-obscure agency, had done just enough research so they could get in touch with them. 

He has options. Right now, though, he has another goal in mind. 

The ruins of New York aren’t conducive to walking around, but he’s marched through worse. He pauses momentarily at Stark Tower, at the giant glowing ‘A’ and the signs of light dozens of floors up. He could stroll in right now and talk with Stark, get him to blow SHIELD wide open and tear the Council down, get SHIELD back in his hands. 

He keeps walking. It isn’t Iron Man he’s interested in right now. 

He’s gone nearly three miles by the time he finds it, a little hole-in-the-wall bar just beyond the damage zone called “Ace in the Hole.” It’s still open, and Fury slips into the smoky atmosphere silently. The sole pool table is untouched, and a few people glance in his direction, all with hollow eyes and murmuring words. The patrons are tight-knit, close together for comfort, for protection. 

All, that is, save one. 

Clint Barton is tucked as far from the door and the other people as he can get. Snipers are loners by nature, and after the last few days it makes sense that he doesn’t even want Natasha around. 

He’s not drinking, fallout memories from his father, his brother, his mentor. Clint hasn’t touched alcohol for as long as Fury’s known him, and even now he hasn’t broken that cardinal rule. Despite their line of work, the man hasn’t turned to drugs, to hookers, nothing more self-destructive than overworking himself on the range. 

Clint’s vice is root beer floats, one of the few comforting mementoes from his childhood. He doesn’t enjoy them, not without prompting. Even now, the foam of the soda is still chilled and waiting to be scooped off, a spoon resting in Clint’s hand with no sign that it’s been used. 

It normally didn’t fall to him to do this, but at this moment, it’s part of why he’s here. Sliding into the other side of the booth, he picks up a second spoon. It’s pinned to the table with a fork before he moves it less than an inch. Clint hadn’t even looked up. 

Fury lets out a slow sigh through his nose, but releases his hold on the utensil. “Barton.”

“Unless the world is ending, sir, go to hell.” There’s no venom in his voice, no bite, not even the hint of sarcasm. 

“Just joining a friend for a drink.” Neither of them acknowledges the glaring absence of any beverage before Fury. 

“If I wanted company, I’d have asked Tasha.”

“Suck it up. She’s busy quelling dissent at SHIELD.”

“Ordered her to break some heads, sir?”

“I didn’t, but maybe Agent—Director Hill did.” He shrugs as Clint glances at him from beneath his lashes. “Not my problem anymore.”

Clint doesn’t offer condolences or apologies. He probably doesn’t have it in him right now. 

And that’s really why he’s here. Coulson—Phil, had been Clint’s partner. Not in any legal fashion. Marriage, even a secret marriage, isn’t really viable for those in Level 7. They hadn’t exchanged rings, tattoos, or even completed a form for HR. That didn’t mean they weren’t each other’s world, though. 

He’d brought in Clint Barton, the assassin Hawkeye.

Phil brought out Clint Barton, the beloved asset. 

And just because it was unofficial, didn’t mean he thought any less of the two of them. They both knew what could happen going in, and neither of them let it interfere with their work. If it were anyone else, Fury would’ve split them up long ago, but his Good Eye and Best Shot were invincible together, and they’d proved time and again that nothing would break them, not even each other. 

Phil had done his duty and faced down Loki, trying to stop a mad alien, trusting Fury and SHIELD to handle Clint. 

Clint had vomited his grief, then did his duty and stepped up for battle with an alien army and comrades who were enemies mere hours before. 

Neither let their emotions compromise their dealings with Loki. 

Extraordinary control from two extraordinary men. 

Except now it’s all done. City saved, Avengers broken up, Loki back on Asgard…there’s nothing to keep Clint distracted, no duty for him to perform. Just time to reflect that the man he loved half his life is gone forever, leaving him alone. 

Like hell he’s going to let his third favorite agent drown in his despair. 

He didn’t fight Hill’s coup for a reason. 

He stood. “Walk with me.”

For a minute, there’s no response. Then, slowly, Clint unfolds himself from his seat, looking less like a dangerous predator and more like a broken marionette. Absently he drops a twenty on the table. 

Fury heads for the door, and checks the tinted widows’ reflection to make sure the man’s following before he continues his long constitutional across the city. Clint stays silent the whole way, but Fury can hear the steady march of his boots; a silent affirmation of trust between the two of them. 

It takes another four hours to get around the damaged regions, but he finally stops outside one of the brown rectangular structures that rivals Stark’s tower for height. He claps his hands behind his back and waits until Clint’s drawn up beside him, still staring at the ground. There’s a slow blink, and then the sharp eyes focus at the wide glass-door entrance, the customary bay right in front of it, the lone ambulance still parked outside. 

Mount Sinai is brilliant against the night sky, obviously as busy as an anthill with all the movement visible through the windows.

Clint blinks again. His fingers stretch out, then fold and clench in a fist at his side. “You mother fucker,” he says in a rough whisper. 

“That’s insubordination.”

“Fuck you.” His voice is shaky, emotion barely held back. “You’re lucky I don’t break your fucking face.”

When the tremors start, Fury ignores the threat and grips the back of Clint’s neck, squeezing it ever so slightly; just like he did when he dragged the cursing mercenary in decades ago. Back then, he was a fighter, but no match for the SHIELD agent. 

Now, Clint could break his arm and have him on his back in thirty seconds. 

Instead, the archer’s entire body relaxes and his eyes fall shut. “I can’t handle this.” A tear slides down his face. “Boss, if he’s…what if he’s…” He shakes again, trying to suck in a breath. 

Fury’s only seen Clint cry twice before, one of the privileged few. He might be willing to exploit the emotional impact of Phil’s death on the Avengers as a team, but he wouldn’t do that one of his favorite agents in such a vulnerable state. Hill and Stark, they think he would without a second thought. The Council definitely counted that as a point of contention. 

None of them ever remember he was Phil’s friend first, that he was probably Clint’s first friend, period. 

He slides his arm so that it drapes across the man’s shoulders. “Come on,” he says as confident as he can, “let’s see how our boy’s doing.”


End file.
